And it's all too much
by Breathing January
Summary: AU. Warnings; Character death, self-harm. After accidentally being the reason for Ron Weasley's death during the final battle in 1998, Hermione Granger goes slightly insane, causing her friends to think it best to place her in St. Mungo's. This is a typical day in the hospital. Rated T for gore.


The clock seemed to hate her today, she thought as she sat in the class, tapping her knee and watching it tick. There seemed to be a longer pause between each tick and it pisses her off because she can't leave until the bell goes.

_Tick... Tick..._

There wasn't another tick. Time stopped when she stopped tapping her knee with her finger nail. Her brown eyebrows drew together in confusion and she tapped her knee once more. The tick echoed in the quiet room and she looked away from the clock to the class. Every eye was on her, pounding down on her conscience. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple, formed by the suddenly much warmer room. The ticking stopped. She tapped her knee three times, quickly.

_Tick, tick, tick._

She looked to the girl who normally sits beside her in this class, but no one was in that chair. The other girl at her table was staring at her, unblinking. She looked to her left, to the other table, but it was empty. She turned back to her table partner, and found she had gone. Behind her, at the table she normally turned and worked at with her friends, was empty. The table wasn't even in the room at all, nor were the chairs. She went to move her hands from her knee to her table, but her spidery fingers came into contact with nothing but air.

That's when she noticed that nothing was in the room except her and the chair she was sitting on. The walls were white, and void of the chalk boards and book cases that normally covered them. The floor was grey, covered in scuff marks from all the times the tables and chairs were moved around and scratched along the tile. The dark brown oak door stood out oddly in the wall behind her, contrasting badly with the bright color scheme of the room.

She stood, walked over and peered through the window in the door, standing on her tippy toes. The hall way outside the room was painted a light blue, and her fast beating heart slowed down slightly. Planting her feet firmly on the ground again caused a splash. She looked down, and saw a thin layer of blood covering the area of the floor. The red liquid splattered her bare legs when she plopped her feet down on the ground again and her feet were no longer pale, but a dark red. The chair was gone now, and nothing but a bed and a window above the bed were present.

The blood seemed to rise slowly, washing over her ankles and staining her shins and filling the room. Tears filled her chocolate brown eyes and she started banging on the door, loud reverberating thumps, all accompanied by a scream demanding to be let out. The blood had reached her knees, warm and thick, when the door finally swung open. She stumbled forward by the force of her fist not meeting anything solid. The blood rushed out of the open doorway in a wave and her legs and the hem of her night gown were left stained.

Standing in the doorway were three people, two which grabbed her arms and dragged her backwards to the bed and one who stood there, writing down on his clipboard, chewing on his bottom lip. In her eyes, he has red hair, and blue eyes and freckles. Ron. Ron was here, alive and well, and she started to scream for him as they strapped her down on the bed. She began to yell out obsceneties like; "You're supposed to be dead! I love you, Ron! Please, don't leave me again! Why are you here?"

Ron looked confused, which frustrated her. She watched him leave her a year ago and now he's here, and he's not helping her and she just wants him to hold her and tell her everything is going to be okay, because it clearly isn't.

The man she believed to be Ron ran his hair through his dark brown hair. His eyes, his chocolate brown eyes, looked worried. He glanced at her legs, and supressed the erge to vomit. She had scratched her skin raw, to the point of the bone nearly being visible and three of her finger nails had been torn off of her fingers in the process. The man sighed, and covered his tan, pointed face with his hands.

"How are we going to deal with her legs? She's torn the skin off right to the bone." he spoke over her screaming, then he looked down and started chewing on his thumb nail.

"I want you," he pointed to one of the men standing beside her bed, "To go get someone to clean up all this blood." the man he pointed at nodded and rushed away.

"And you." he pointed at the other man, "Sedate her."

As he was walking out of the room, clip board tucked under his arm, she over heard him mumble under his breath; "And who the hell is Ron?"

**A/N: Disclaimed**


End file.
